


Walking

by marchingjaybird



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic), Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norman tries to walk away the voices. Bob tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Misachan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misachan/gifts).



The tower was quiet this time of night, the only sounds piercing the sterling silence the occasional shuffle of a guard’s boot or the soft hiss of a door opening and closing. People who moved this late at night did so in bare feet, walking toe to heel to avoid untoward noises, eyes open wide and ears pricked forward as more basic, primal instincts took hold. Norman Osborn was no different, though he performed all of the rituals of night stalking with a practiced ease that made it seem as though he moved as normally through the darkness as he did the light.

He didn’t sleep so well these days, haunted by the build-up of opposition, the slow and often ineffectual (but annoying nevertheless) blocking of his careful machinations by some leftover team of Avengers. He hated them, resented them for trying to take what, by all rights, belonged to him now. They’d had their chance, and they’d failed. They’d allowed their own petty infighting to tear them apart, to the point that shape-shifting aliens had gotten a solid foothold on the planet before anyone noticed. They didn’t deserve the title, the tower, or the responsibility. Spoiled children, all of them.

He clutched his head, pressing his palms hard against his temples. The headaches were bad lately, throbbing monstrosities that drove him to this insomniac wandering, bare feet padding down long, cold corridors. The guards that he passed stared studiously ahead, accustomed to their boss’s increasingly common nightly habit of pacing up and down the tower. He signed the paychecks, and therefore was not to be questioned.

He rounded a corner and reached out, dragging his fingertips along the wall as though to slow himself down. Everything was cold and smooth and silver and did absolutely nothing to alleviate the _real_ problem, which was that he was hearing things again and it was very difficult to ignore them when the whole damned tower was like an echo chamber, funneling them up and coughing them out over the entire city. Some days he could swear he saw last night’s words hanging in a filthy haze around the tops of skyscrapers, ominous and ever-present.

 _You are not insane_ , he told himself. _The voices are not real, they are manifestations of your subconscious anxieties and must not be taken seriously_. He repeated it, over and over, but it never seemed to help, only to amplify, as though the racket in his head felt it had to increase in volume and vehemence in order to be heard over these admittedly weak affirmations.

Norman rounded another corner and stopped short.

“Bob,” he said cautiously. Now that he was no longer moving, cold from the floor seeped up into his feet and set the bones aching. “What are you doing?”

Slowly, Bob turned to face him, seemingly as puzzled as Norman as to what he was doing standing in the middle of the hall. He wore pajama bottoms, incongruous on his large frame, and no shirt. His hair was mussed as though he’d just gotten out of bed, though to Norman’s best knowledge, Bob didn’t actually require sleep. He stood for a moment, a puzzled expression on his handsome face, then shrugged. “I thought I heard something,” he said.

Panic gripped Norman, a sick fist squeezing his stomach until it felt as small and hard as a pebble. Breathing deep, he forced it to release, reminding himself that the voices were not real, and Bob was talking about something else. “What did you hear?” he asked. His voice, as always, was smooth and tightly controlled.

“I don’t know,” Bob said. “A fight, I thought, but there’s nothing here.” He blinked several times, rapidly, as though trying to clear his mind, then turned his crystalline gaze on Norman. “What are you doing up?”

“Just walking,” Norman answered. “I couldn’t sleep.” Bob nodded, as though that made perfect sense.

“Can I come with you?” he asked. “Just in case there was a fight.” At first, Norman assumed curiosity on Bob’s part and almost ordered him back up to his little bird’s nest at the top of the tower. It dawned on him, as he looked into Bob’s guileless face, that it was more likely that Bob simply wanted to make sure he didn’t get hurt.

Touched, Norman nodded his head and the two of them began to walk now, not speaking, just padding down endless halls and he didn’t notice that Bob was getting closer and closer until their shoulders brushed and Bob was reaching down, grasping Norman’s hand in his own and holding it tight. “Bob,” he said softly, looking up enquiringly. “What are you doing?”

“You’ve been a good friend, Norman,” Bob said. He smiled and it was heart-breaking. “You take care of me.”

“And that means hand holding?” Norman kept his voice soft. Upsetting Bob was the last thing he wanted. Emotions chased each other across Bob’s face, uncertainty and fear and yearning, and then he bent swiftly, brushing his lips across Norman’s, gasping at the soft contact. Norman stood very still, surprised and yet not at all shocked by this turn of events.

“Bob?” he breathed again, and then his back was against the wall, cold leeching in through the thin fabric of his pajamas and Bob was pressed hard against him, huge and unimaginably powerful. A surge of fear electrified his limbs - _this is not just Robert Reynolds, this is The Sentry, this is the most powerful single being on this miserable planet_ \- and was quashed in the same instant as Bob’s mouth met his again, infinitely gentle.

He parted his lips, tilting his head back and surrendering to Bob’s lead. His tongue swept into Norman’s mouth, hot and eager and preceded by a low moan. Huge hands roamed up and down his body, pressing his shoulders, his chest, his waist, creeping back up to ghost across his nipples and draw a soft groan from his own throat as shivery pleasure splintered through him. Teeth met his lip, hands found his hips, lifted him up as he sucked ardently at Bob’s tongue. His legs circled Bob’s hips, tightened and pulled him close, and they were grinding together, filling the silent hall with gasps and muffled moans as they enacted the motions of fucking to an audience of silent security cameras.

Bob shifted, the flat plane of his belly rubbing hard against Norman’s prick, and he cried out sharply, much more loudly than he intended. Bob released him, spun him around, and that warm hand was slipping down, down, down, and in and there were thick, strong fingers wrapped firmly around his shaft. He slammed his forehead against the cold wall and gritted his teeth against a scream that struggled to be born, and Bob’s hand moved once, twice, and it was over. Norman spilled himself across Bob’s fist with a weak gasp and sagged forward against the wall, unbearably tired.

Warm arms surrounded him, lifted him, and he was lulled into a half-sleep by the motion of Bob’s gait. They made their way back, passing guards and doors and elevators until they reached Norman’s room, where Bob set him on his feet again. “Thank you,” he said, pressing a last, lingering kiss to the pulse point beneath Norman’s jaw. Norman thought about asking whether Bob had come or not, and if he wanted to finish what they’d started in the relative safety of Norman’s room. But he was exhausted and inarticulate and Bob murmured into his ear, “I’ll see you in the morning”. Wicked promise, and Norman watched him walk away until he rounded a corner and was lost from sight.

Sighing, he keyed open his door and collapsed into bed, dimly aware that the voices had, at least for tonight, been thoroughly silenced.


End file.
